


all that’s best of dark and bright

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Nationverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Love and grumbling on a hot summer's night.





	all that’s best of dark and bright

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [frukweek](https://tmblr.co/mtHNH_3i_CgwRbtyzizdCSA), Day 5: _Nyotalia_.

They lie dozing together and watch the moon make its slow way way across the sky, tracking its progress by the bars of light entering France’s bedroom through her open window. Balcony door.  _ Anything  _ for a breeze: the night air is stultifying. England’s bare back under France’s hand is damp with slowly cooling sweat, as is everywhere their bodies meet, limbs tangled together - France on her back, England drowsing between her spread legs atop her. England’s face is tucked beneath France’s jaw, stirring the strands of France’s hair with her sleepy breathing, and her fingers idly stroke back and forth over the soft skin of France’s inner upper arm, back and forth. Both of them loose-limbed and lethargic, half-asleep from the summer heat and satiation.

It is still so warm; sex had been a terrible idea. Sex had been a  _ wonderful _ idea, and the relief of peeling off the couture gowns they had worn to the opera earlier in the evening had only been triumphed by the night air on their flushed skin, England’s mouth wet and hot and everywhere. She had left her earrings in, dangling late 18th century sapphires and diamonds set in silver, and the cool, tickling touch of metal and gems had been a shock to the inside of France’s thighs, made her yelp, then laugh, then moan. Murmuring  _ diamonds are a girl’s best friend. _

England had bit her hip, because England is a little viperous vampire, leaving the perfect imprint of her small sharp teeth on France’s skin. France’s nails, in turn, have left scratches between the constellations of faint freckles the summer sun has kissed over England’s shoulders - the little marks, they show after the sunset red glow of burnt skin has faded. It is  _ wondrous _ what a manicure can do, and now France can blame England if their activities have chipped any of her nail polish.

France shifts a little when she feels her eyelids flickering, a soft  _ mm  _ that rolls up from the soles of her feet planted against the mattress to the wings of her shoulder-blades. Moving seems like so much  _ effort,  _ but she will get a crick in the neck and back if she sleeps like this. “Lève-toi?”

England, perhaps even closer to sleep than France, grumbles. Opera always makes her easy to lull into sleepiness, made too introspective by good music for her own good, and their evening at the Palais Garnier to see the latest production of  _ Don Giovanni  _ there had been no exception. Warm, good food and cool, better champagne at the restaurant afterwards had only sped things along, melted England into pliability, sweet kisses and bubbles and cream.

“Allez,” France says a little more insistently, and nudges England in the ribs, “ _ lève-toi _ .”

“...From the bed?” England slurs, tone all injured, drowsy complaint.

In deference to their strained political relationship lately, England does have a hotel for this trip to Paris. A hotel where all her things currently are. But the night and their whims had taken them to France’s apartment after the opera, leaving them plenty of room for England to find herself deposited on the kerb should their interactions turn sour. 

The flutter of England’s breath is far too pleasant over France’s skin, as is the warmth she gives off, and so France must dig deep from the reservoirs of her strength to keep at her quest and save them both in the morning. Later, in the morning. Perhaps closer to the afternoon.

“I am not kicking you out,” France explains, for which she is gifted her guest sluggishly lifting her head from under France’s chin, action guided by the soft drag of her nose over France’s cheek, “but all ze nerves in my pelvis are going numb.”

Having nosed her way up to France’s temple by touch alone, England sighs gustily into France’s ear like  _ she  _ is the one suffering, but she obligingly pushes herself up to her knees and forearms so she can lift and wiggle herself over all of France’s limbs and flop quite melodramatically facedown on the mattress beside her.

Pleased to have the full range of movement returned to her but now far more awake, France rolls over onto her side so she can tuck herself in close to England again, pressing a kiss to the other Nation’s cheek. “Merci beaucoup, ma petite.”

“The sheets are cooler over here,” England grouches back at her. Her eyes have already shut again, deep shadows on her face whilst the moon makes silver valleys of her back.

France takes advantage, tipping her head so that she can kiss England’s throat. She can still taste the sweet traces of England’s perfume there, lingering and mixing like the summer haze with the musk of sex and England’s blood, something that once had the note of rose petals and peach blossoms and is now deep warm sandalwood. Amber and oakmoss.

“Frog, either kick me out or let me sleep.” England shifts, just a little. Their elbows knock, and forearms stick. Clammy. Their limbs peel apart again when France moves her hand to sift through the strands of England’s gleaming hair in an approximation of petting. “I want to be asleep before it gets too hot to fall asleep again.”

“Is that your only request?” France asks her, feeling amused mischief buzz in her throat.

England protests: “It wasn’t an  _ invitation - _ ”

“You are very much like a cranky cat in the heat, hm?”

“We’ll see who’s  _ cranky  _ when I wake you up before three in the afternoon tomorrow,” England grumbles, and the sound of it rumbles through France’s lips, pressed to the soft hollow under her jaw.

France hums there, content. “Mm, but will you wake me up with breakfast?”

“You want me to use your kitchen?” France snorts at England’s mildly hopeful tone - England may use the kettle in France’s kitchen and open and close the fridge, and that is almost all -, and England’s sigh gusts over her head. It is the closest thing to a breeze either of them has felt all night. “You want me to go buy you food to temporarily grace your kitchen.”

She says this like she has not serenely done it a thousand times before. On the mornings their feelings towards each other have been fonder, England has often tripped her way to the nearby pâtisserie that France prefers to bring them both back breakfast, sometimes wearing little more than a long borrowed button-up of France’s and a belt, sleep in the corners of her eyes and hair still tousled around her face, down her back.

The pâtisserie’s owners like her. They have seen her enough to know her as Mme. Bonnefoy’s ‘dear friend’ and occasional love interest, a ‘sweet young woman’ who is ‘so  _ kind’  _ to fetch France breakfast those days she stays over at France’s apartment, who is ‘so polite’ and has such a ‘quaint accent, not quite English, not quite Calais.’

France has no idea how the married couple who own the pâtisserie have managed to draw up even  _ half  _ the compliments that they have for England, but then, England is much nicer to France’s people than she is to France herself. Perhaps it is the French that England uses with them. Perhaps it is the sight of England smiling; she is  _ so  _ much more charismatic when she smiles.

Perhaps it is the sight of England’s bare legs under France’s borrowed shirt, sleeves drooping over her wrists and yawn helplessly half-smothered by her fingertips.

When left alone to make her own decisions about their meal, England will inevitably pick up sweet things for them to eat: honey-glazed, buttery croissants to devour with strawberry or apricot jam; escargot shells stuffed with pistachio, chocolate and praline; chocolate-and-caramel éclairs; strawberry tarts made with English or Belgian strawberries; palmiers; madeleines; pains au chocolat, and crispy chaussons aux pommes when the apples are ripe. Occasionally there will be pastries made or stuffed with bacon or ham or cheese, a concession that not everyone in the world has England’s sweet tooth, and, if she has noticed that France is short on bread, England will occasionally stop off at a nearby boulangerie as well, bringing back brioche buns and a baguette or two, or morning-soft bread with crusty edges to butter.

Depending on the haul, there will be eggs cooked in the kitchen - it is difficult for even England to mess up boiling or scrambling eggs -, potatoes fried into a hash, tea with milk, strong coffee, and fruit juice served ice-cold from the fridge.

So there is food, sometimes in bed, and afterwards, there are kisses and lazy sex in bed. Or, if France can be pried from her sleep and they eat at the table - England does  _ fuss  _ so about crumbs in the sheets -, there are ankles hooked together and France thumbing away strawberry jam at the corner of England’s lips, lifting the digit to suck clean as England’s grass-green eyes go thrillingly dark at the sight. More kisses. Once, daringly, an attempt half-naked sex on the large balcony, with little care for the world passing below.

France, kneeling on that occasion, had paused to lay her head against England’s thigh, her lover’s fingers still tight in her hair, as England had started trembling above her - from  _ laughter  _ rather than the pleasure of France’s fingers, tongue. A pigeon had decided to join them, perched on the railing beside England’s elbow, tilting its little head and looking down at its Nation with a bewildered little  _ coo?  _ England had been giggling too much for them to continue that way, sinking down to her knees to straddle France’s thighs and wrap her arms around France’s shoulders. They had both been laughing by that point, for the silly little pigeon had  _ refused  _ to go away, laughing more than kissing, mouths missing as often as they met.

“As though you do not eat more than half of what you buy yourself,” France teases, pleasant memories at the forefront of her mind as her fingertips trace the shell of England’s ear, tugging lightly at the lobe. “Such a sweet tooth you have.”

_ “Indulge me, _ ” England drones, and tips her head, a kiss pressed to France’s forehead. She still has not opened her eyes. “But for now -”

“Sleep,” France sighs, but slides her hand from England’s head, laying it on the scant space of the mattress between them. “Ouais, ouais.”

Fingers cover her own. Really, it is far too hot for such affection, too-warm palm over France’s knuckles, but it gives France a warm flutter of heat in her heart as well.

“Sweet dreams,” England murmurs - or, France  _ thinks  _ she murmurs. It is too easy to sleep into a sticky doze, and the words could be a dream or floating through the window from somewhere else in Paris.

They sleep. Neither of them have bothered with the sheets, so the moon, still drifting, blankets them in silver.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic did not go in the direction that I intended it to at _all_ , but I did succeed in making myself exceptionally hungry.  
> The title is taken from _She Walks in Beauty_ , a poem by Lord Byron.  
>  _Don Giovanni_ has been showing at the Palais Garnier this year, from the 8th of June to the 13th of July.  
> They didn’t make it into the final fic - would you believe the planned plot for this was a dramatic argument and involved much more focus on fashion -, but I picked out couture gowns for England and France to wear to the opera. England was wearing [this piece](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2019-couture/chanel/slideshow/collection#50) from Chanel’s Fall/Winter Couture 2019 with [these earrings](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/378513543665601387/), whilst France wore [this number](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2019-couture/elie-saab/slideshow/collection#13) from Elie Saab Fall/Winter 2019. 


End file.
